


Convergent Evolution

by architeuthis



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Cinematic Universe, DCU
Genre: Clothed Sex, Costume Swap, Deepthroating, Dry Humping, Future Fic, M/M, Manual Restraint, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Superpowers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-16 12:09:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9270209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/architeuthis/pseuds/architeuthis
Summary: Clark's Batman impersonation goes fine, until Bruce has to help him out of the suit.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [at the DCEU kinkmeme](http://dceu-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1491.html?thread=620243#cmt620243). Huge thanks to affablyevil, Steals_Thyme, TKodami and zeitheist, who made this story possible with their alpha and/or beta reading, enabling, and high fives. Any remaining errors are my own.

Clark's posture went rigid when Bruce took a knee to get at the boot fastenings. "You know," he said, "I think I can figure it out from here."

"Alfred said he had to fit the entire thing to you himself because you got impatient and started, quote, 'yanking'." Bruce disengaged the left knee guard from the shin guard and set it aside on his office's area rug, undid the catches on the back of the boot itself, then switched sides and did it again. "Getting out is faster than getting in. Just give me a moment."

"There isn't a countdown on your life anymore, so I can just— You know what—" Irritation entered Clark's voice, and he relaxed fractionally. "I do know how to be careful, Bruce. I had a legitimate reason for rushing, earlier. I can work out the rest now that I've seen you do the top half."

"Is there also a reason why you needed the entire tactical loadout? The Clock King doesn't rate this." And the process of removing it was twice as onerous when he was doing it for another person, who stood over Bruce uselessly with his hands out from his sides like he was afraid to touch anything. Clark had been in the midst of taking off the Batsuit's gauntlets when he decided to assert his independence; the right one hung from his still-gloved left hand.

"The more extra stuff I put over the suit, the less obvious it is that it doesn't fit me," he said. "Better than someone realizing it wasn't the real Bat. Really, just let me take it from here. You said something about a change of clothes?"

"Well, now you're annoyed," Bruce said. "The last thing I need is you tearing millions of dollars of engineering like paper to teach me a lesson about how I should just let you run off half-cocked whenever you want."

"You know _perfectly well_ that wasn't—"

"Just hold still for the one entire minute I—"

Bruce reached for one of the buckles on the left thigh guard, and Clark finally pulled away from him, a quick flinching half-step backwards—and Bruce forgot himself, as he sometimes did with Clark. He was one of probably three people on Earth who could compete for the honor of having examined the implications of Clark's impossible, planet-shattering strength most deeply, but moment to moment, his visceral impulse was to treat Clark as a man. He was human-shaped and human-sized and a frustrating, pervasive part of Bruce's day-to-day life, and when he stepped back from Bruce now, Bruce automatically grabbed him by the leg to hold him still.

It worked. Clark inhaled sharply and dropped the gauntlet he was holding. His hands flew to the waistband of the Batsuit as though he were afraid the bottom half of it would fall off him, but he froze where he was, with Bruce's fingers digging into the inside of his thigh and the back of his knee. Bruce looked up for the first time since he'd knelt—up along Clark's body, past his hands, past the insignia on his chest, at his scarlet face and clenched jaw. Clark's eyes were fixed on the dark beyond the office windows, where Gotham lay glowing far below them.

"Please just let me take care of this," Clark said, in the deliberate, steady voice he used in situations that required the eternal sunny confidence with which Superman had returned from the grave. A voice that could hold up the world, no matter what Clark was feeling. The blush was creeping down his neck.

Oh.

Working closely with a man who could diagnose cancer by smell invited a certain amount of paranoia about what one's unexamined physiological reactions might be giving away. So Bruce had dusted off his biofeedback training, and seen about securing his privacy. If he'd pulled it off—and Clark had never given him reason to believe he hadn't—his autonomic landscape in Clark's presence was now normal for their half-convivial, half-combative working relationship. He had presented a timeline of a man moving past both his lingering disquiet in the presence of an alien who could crack the world in half and his relief at the reversal of one of the greatest mistakes of his life, and simply leveling out.

That was where the lie came in.

It was as challenging and pervasive a lie as the Bruce Wayne identity, and Bruce had applied himself to it with the same determination. It had seen him through a thousand late-night arguments and incidental touches. It had not failed the time Bruce, freefalling, had fired his grapple like a Hail Mary, and Clark had been there to pluck the hook from the end of its arc and bear Bruce to safety. The time Clark had loosened his tie and sprawled, grinning, in the open Batmobile. The time he'd seen Bruce to the cave and waited far back while Bruce dosed himself with fear toxin antidote, but had not left until he was sure Bruce would be fine.

It had not failed, because Bruce had prepared for every permutation of himself looking at Clark and thinking _you showed after all_ or _just a little more_ or _come back_. What he had never accounted for was the reverse scenario: Clark looking at _him_ , on his knees, with his head bent almost to Clark's thigh, and thinking _for_ him all the things he could not let himself contemplate in Clark's presence. A door flew open to a whole realm of sexual fantasy Bruce had never considered: Clark both watching and not-watching Bruce as closely as Bruce had done to him, and fighting himself, fighting his own body—and winning, until there came a situation for which neither of them had planned and they both lost, at once, together.

"Bruce?" said Clark, in a very different voice. Superman never sounded shaken.

Bruce took his hand off Clark's knee and unbuckled the fastener that had created all this contention, the top strap of the left thigh guard. His heart thundered. He could just imagine what his galvanic skin response was at the moment. In his mind he heard the warning beep of the electrocardiogram he used for practice, like Pavlov's experiment in reverse: first salivation, then the bell.

"Bruce?" said Clark again, and put two fingers to Bruce's jaw as though he were thinking of making Bruce look up at him. It was his gloved hand, but Bruce still felt the touch like sun on a prism, like it refracted, blazing, throughout his body. He fought not to turn closer, to put his mouth to Clark's palm or the base of his thumb.

"Did you do this with Alfred too?" said Bruce. Clark snatched his hand away before the last word was out.

"What kind of question—"

"I guess he wasn't taking the suit _off_ you—"

"Damn it, Bruce, that's not why. Of course that's not why. If you're going to deflect, would you just _deflect_ and let me get through this conversation with a little dignity?"

"—and I am." Bruce undid the second buckle on the thigh guard and reached for the two at the back. Clark caught his breath and stood straighter, but not so much so that the front and back of Bruce's wrist didn't touch the insides of his thighs.

"So you aren't going to deflect, but you _are_ going to be a jerk about it?" he said tightly.

"I have to get my shots in while I'm still able to talk."

It was a full-blown gasp this time, not just the quick, surprised breath of a moment ago; Clark's whole body hitched with it. Then it hitched again, because he'd started to laugh, almost silently. "Oh my god," he said into his hands.

Bruce took advantage of Clark's distraction to unbuckle and remove the other thigh guard without the three-minute argument that every other part of this process had entailed. Clark had been right: the suit didn't fit him. It was particularly obvious on the bottom half, where the waistband hit too high in front and too low in back, and tension folds converged on the groin.

If he bit Clark's thigh now, the layer of non-Newtonian fluid armor in the Batsuit would stiffen between his teeth and neither of them would really get anything out of it. But— He put his hand on the back of it, high up near the curve of Clark's ass, and Clark stopped laughing instantly. Bruce had seen Clark read pen impressions on a pad with his fingertips; what would he feel, through the layers of technology in the Batsuit, if Bruce leaned in, just like this, and put his mouth to the cord of muscle that had jumped a moment ago with Clark's laughter?

Maybe he felt it, or maybe the visual was enough. Clark made another breathy sound—oh, fuck. His series of gasps had not been coincidence, or surprise; this was just how Clark sounded when he was aroused, these little voiceless noises, like he was trying to be quiet somewhere not private enough, rather than standing in a soundproof office at the pinnacle of Bruce's corporate stronghold. Whatever else happened here, Bruce would have that forever, to unpack in the dark when he needed it: the sonic reality of Clark Kent anticipating a blowjob. Bruce pressed the heel of his palm against his growing erection and moved his mouth higher, opening it against the kevlar; he tasted Gotham smog and the residue of the detergent he used on the suit, felt the minute tremor of Clark's body on his tongue.

"Do I need to be concerned," he said into Clark's hip, "about what sort of fluids you're leaving on the inside of my life's work?"

"For God's sake," Clark muttered, but his affront wasn't enough to keep him from touching Bruce. It was his bare hand this time, and Bruce was struck, as he always was on the rare occasions when they touched, by the incongruous softness of Clark's skin. Clark had the hands not just of someone who'd never had a hangnail or papercut, but of someone who had never handled farm equipment or punched an asteroid to dust. He made one tentative pass and then a firmer one, stroking back the hair disarranged in this evening's hostage debacle, and finally just let his hand rest on Bruce's head, his thumb at Bruce's hairline. "No, I, no," he said, like he was only half paying attention to his own words. "I don't know what you do when you suit up, but I wouldn't go commando in someone else's vocation."

"That's no guarantee," Bruce said. And then, aridly, "For example, I expect at least these boxers I have on to be a lost cause by the time we're finished here."

Clark bit off a little gasp, and Bruce's cock jumped against his palm in response. Clark must have seen this, or heard it, because his fingers tightened against Bruce's scalp, which sent a shiver down Bruce's neck. This chain reaction could run away with him if they weren't careful.

"I know," Clark blurted, "god, I can smell you."

The shiver walked up Bruce's spine like fingers this time. Everything about this was so goddamn intrusive. Concealing his reactions to Clark so assiduously he didn't even feel them himself has been his way of life, and here they were, in the failure state Bruce had always envisioned, where just being in a room with Clark allowed him to pry into Bruce's thoughts like no one else on Earth could. He needed to control this, he needed to get the lid back on it, but for now the thrill of being able to want Clark so flagrantly bore him along like a river rapid.

He rubbed his cheek against Clark's hip, drunk on honesty, and said, "But you're not quite as interested in that in its own right as you are in hearing me talk about it."

"What? Of course I— Okay, you know what, are you going to make fun of me or are you going to get—get on with things?"

"There has technically never been anything preventing you from just undressing yourself," Bruce said, and nosed at the Batsuit's groin protector. Clark definitely didn't feel _that_ , except as pressure on his pelvis, but Bruce heard the breath flutter in his throat anyway. Would Clark's erection feel like a human's? More rigid, maybe. It must be passably humanlike in most respects, or Clark would have warned Bruce by now, if only to manage the likelihood and timing of that particular sort of rejection. Or maybe he assumed that Bruce wouldn't be doing this at all if he weren't prepared to put his mouth on whatever might be inside that cup with very little hesitation—that Bruce would have already thought these possibilities through. That was presumptuous, but accurate.

Clark's hands went to the waistband like they had at the start of all this, then hesitated; either the sight of Bruce parting his lips and letting his teeth just brush against the cup had stopped him, or he was stymied for a way to hustle Bruce along. Politely hurrying up a blowjob was a skill Clark probably had not needed to cultivate. He was so careful of other people physically, he'd never just yank down the bottom half of the Batsuit and shove his cock into Bruce's face, though—Bruce's heart rate spiked and he made no effort to pull it down to normal—that would not be awful. And what reason did he have to know how much he could accomplish just by leaning into Bruce, pushing back against him instead of accepting his attentions with still politeness, or by slipping his fingers into Bruce's mouth until the temptation to have more of him there was too great to resist?

Bruce swallowed audibly. Jesus, it was working and Clark hadn't even had to _do_ it. He took his hand off himself and reached up, hooked his fingers through the waistbands of the Batsuit's bottom half, the undersuit pants, and—sure enough—whatever cotton item Clark had on beneath that. Bruce put his mouth to the sliver of skin that appeared where the Batsuit gave way; Clark inhaled shakily, and Bruce felt the tension and release in the muscles of his stomach. He tasted unremarkable, quite a bit less sweaty than someone just coming out of the suit should have been.

The waistband would only come down a couple of inches, only relinquish that much of Clark's skin to Bruce's mouth, before he had to involve his other hand to get it down past Clark's hips. Those first few inches were always the most difficult, and doubly so on a body the suit didn't quite fit; but the suit gave Clark up, and all at once Bruce had Clark's bare ass in his hands and the curve of Clark's freed cock bumping his jaw. His stubble would have been no great fun for anyone else, but maybe the texture or the pressure worked for Clark, who jerked his hips forward just a fraction and then made an obvious effort to relax. Bruce sought him out blindly, until his lips touched soft hot skin, and slipped his mouth over the head.

Clark exhaled explosively as the smooth length of him slid into Bruce's mouth, then said, "Bruce," disbelievingly when the head of his cock met Bruce's soft palate and Bruce just worked his throat and adjusted the angle of his neck and took it. "You don't," Clark said, "I—oh God." He was meticulously still, a statue, but Bruce could feel Clark's hammering pulse in his mouth, feel the tension under the tranquility.

He eased back, running a tight circle of his fingers down Clark's cock as it emerged from his mouth. As promised, there was no bitterness of precome at the slit, but when Bruce tongued at the head anyway and squeezed just behind it, Clark's hand clenched in Bruce's hair and his hips twitched a second time and he pushed back into Bruce's mouth and then past it—and for an exhilarating, uncertain instant Bruce was trapped with a cock in his throat, an immovable hand on the back of his head, and no idea when he'd be taking his next breath.

Clark withdrew at once. "Sorry," he gasped, too stricken to notice Bruce hadn't gagged, "sorry, are you—"

Bruce gave him a skeptical look from the other side of Clark's cock, an experience Bruce himself had always found fairly withering. It was, at least, enough to stop Clark mid-sentence.

"All right," Clark said instead, "of course you're fine. Sorry to impugn your...." He made a vague gesture and Bruce ratcheted his eyebrow a notch higher, but it wasn't enough to lead Clark into the thicket of trying to finish that sentence. Bruce stroked him, let the head of Clark's cock bump his mouth again, and probably could have pinpointed in video playback the moment that Clark stopped giving a damn about talking the matter out.

"Good," Bruce said, and parted his lips; his tongue met skin. Clark let his breath out long and slow, and stroked his flat hands over Bruce's hair, then rested them on Bruce's shoulders, as though that grip wouldn't be just as devastating if things went south.

Bruce met Clark's eyes and played his tongue down the length of Clark's cock. He worked his way back up with lavish openmouthed kisses, letting his lips catch at the skin, letting himself suck just a little. He worked his thumb in circles just under Clark's glans and rubbed his face along the shaft, followed his rough cheek with his soft mouth. Clark kneaded Bruce's shoulders, let his hips sway forward a little when it was safe, when it wouldn't be rude or too forceful; his cock slid wetly through the tunnel of Bruce's hand once, and Bruce felt the twitch against his palm.

Clark's balls were low and loose when Bruce cupped them, but his body was strung tight. So, nowhere near coming, but tense, anticipatory. He wasn't _not_ enjoying himself, but the only time Bruce heard his breath catch was when a long lick would have framed the head of Clark's cock briefly against Bruce's open mouth, from Clark's perspective. He direly wanted Bruce to just suck him off already.

Bruce gave himself away with that one. Maybe his mouth twitched, but more likely Clark was cheating, just by his existence on Earth, just by being with a room with someone who could never match his perception or his strength. There was so _much_ to conceal from him, Bruce could hardly remember how he had managed any of it.

"Oh my god," Clark breathed. It was not an exclamation of pleasure.

Bruce didn't have to take Clark out of his mouth to reply. "What?"

"Don't even try it."

"Try what?"

"You're still making fun of me," Clark said, ignoring the question. "I can't believe you."

"Fortunately, I have no reason to fear reprisal."

"Oh my god," Clark said again, but this time he was almost laughing.

He took Bruce's jaw in his gauntleted hand and his own cock in his bare one and rubbed it across Bruce's mouth—and that was all it took, Clark doing it to Bruce instead of Bruce doing it himself. Here was the spark he'd been missing, the click. Bruce wanted to open his mouth but waited instead for Clark to push at him, for his thumb to press at Bruce's molars through his cheek, and then he capitulated and let Clark inside.

Clark hesitated when he hit the back of Bruce's throat; Bruce rolled his eyes and slapped Clark on the ass, just hard enough to shock the breath from him. He grabbed Bruce by the hair again and yanked him in until his nose touched Clark's stomach. Bruce wasn't sure how long Clark would hold him there, and if his pulse kept jumping and his body kept throbbing like this, if he kept giving himself away, it might be a while—but no, Clark wanted to _fuck_ him, not choke him. When he withdrew, it wasn't the guilty backwards jerk from earlier; he watched every inch emerge. Bruce kept his lips tight around Clark's cock while he could, followed the ridge of the underside with his tongue, and watched Clark's eyelids waver downward as he thrust back in.

Here also were the little sounds, the sighs and the bitten-off gasps. Bruce watched Clark's jaw clench and soften and his mouth tremble, and had to press his hand against his cock again before the unsatisfied ache of it overcame him. He worked his throat at the bottom of each thrust, curled his tongue with each withdrawal. When Clark leaned into him and pushed his shoulders lower, changed the angle and speed of his thrust so that Bruce swallowed him a little deeper and a little longer, Bruce groaned as soon as he had a free larynx to do it with. Oh, Clark liked that. He liked the vibration but mostly, Bruce would bet, he liked Bruce enjoying it: Bruce wanting something, after all, that Clark had been avoiding for fear of hurting him, or of a mismatch of desires.

When Clark took his hands off Bruce, Bruce almost grabbed for them, to put them back in his hair, on his face, on his shoulders—but there was a new tension in Clark, and Bruce waited a moment to find out what fresh bullshit this was going to be. Clark's thrusts were shallower each time and his breaths were shorter, shorter—ah.

He pulled out of Bruce's mouth altogether when his orgasm hit him, and took a half-step back. Clark was almost motionless aside from that, clenched tight from head to foot, apart from the visible pulsing of his cock in his hand. A splash of come caught Bruce on the shoulder of his dress shirt, but it didn't seem to emerge with unusual—say, dangerous—force, and was mostly just running over Clark's fingers now. His other hand was at the back of his neck, curled into a fist so tight Bruce could hear the material of the glove creak. Bruce gave it a moment, until Clark was just past the crest of it, not quite coming down yet but not alert to Bruce again either—until he was as vulnerable as anyone other than Bruce ever saw Superman—and then he yanked Clark back in like he had earlier, by the knee and the waistband, and put his mouth to the still taut and quivering head of Clark's cock, and sucked.

And there was Clark's voice, for one astonished, full-throated cry. He threw his head back and thrust the last of his orgasm down Bruce's throat: one pulse, two, three—either the Kryptonian orgasm ran long or this was a good one. Bruce's hands were on Clark's ass again, and he could feel the tension in Clark unspool as the spasms subsided and his hips slowed. Clark withdrew languidly, watching himself again, or perhaps Bruce's face, with both hands buried in Bruce's hair; Bruce gave him a final squeeze and chased the head of Clark's cock with his tongue. Here he tasted something off, finally, a little too chemical, or in the wrong way. That might just have been Clark's atrocious eating habits.

Clark took a deep breath and let it out with a miniscule vocalization at the end, like the seed of a moan. Then he reached down for the collar of Bruce's waistcoat, and half stooped to meet him, half yanked him partway to his feet; a button popped off and bounced from one of the plates of armor that still lay around their feet.

"What the hell," he demanded, "do you have any idea how dangerous—" and kissed Bruce with no pause in which to mount a reply.

It was not as ferocious a kiss as Bruce was expecting. For a moment, yes, but then Clark seemed to get distracted by the act itself and fell into what Bruce took to be his first-kiss routine of testing and teasing to see what Bruce responded to best. Bruce let him get away with this for about fifteen seconds, then gradually stopped entertaining it, until the kiss was just Clark coaxing fruitlessly at Bruce's mouth with his lips and his teeth.

Clark started to laugh when he caught on. "Damn it, Bruce."

Bruce got his feet under himself properly and pulled Clark's body flush against his own, the whole height and breadth of him. Clark rose up on his toes just a fraction, and his still-hard cock slotted up neatly against Bruce's through the wool of his trousers. God, _friction_. Bruce didn't even know what he wanted. To come. For Clark to get him off. As swiftly and comprehensibly as possible, please and thank you.

For the moment he'd settle for some decent goddamn kissing, and he was getting it now that Clark had stopped treating him like they'd just met. Clark was as intent and sumptuous a kisser as Bruce could have asked for, if it had ever been safe to even let the thought form. Bruce pushed him and he pushed back, he bit, he sighed, he shoved up against Bruce and grinned at the sound Bruce made into his mouth. Bruce was still holding Clark's bare ass in his hands—he may have been digging his fingers into it, holding their hips flush; God, it took everything he had not to just grind against Clark to completion—but Clark's hands were everywhere on Bruce, like he couldn't decide what he wanted to touch first. They ran through his hair and down his back and slipped just briefly past the waist of Bruce's pants, then up under his vest instead when that proved a non-starter that would require either working multiple fasteners or just ripping the pants off him. Bruce felt another of the less robust buttons on his waistcoat go, and thought he heard it land on the rug.

Clark pushed him back a step, and Bruce's heel touched one of the tactical suit plates, lying like a landmine on the floor just behind him. Both of them froze. Then Clark ran his hands down the backs of Bruce's thighs and lifted him up—up off the floor and into the air, with his legs around Clark's waist. Clark skimmed across the room and placed Bruce gently and with surprising precision on the edge of his own desk, then leaned into Bruce. For the sake of the thing, Bruce thought at first, but Clark met his eyes from inches away and swept the desk clear with his arm. Bruce heard his blotter and phone and whatever desk toy he was pretending to be obsessed with this month skid across the polished surface and clatter to the floor.

"Most of that was expensive," Bruce said, with his lips not quite touching Clark's.

"You don't care."

"So good of you to finally join us."

Clark laughed against Bruce's mouth. He was holding Bruce's face now as they kissed, his jaw, the sides of his neck; the Clock King had left a shallow cut on Bruce's throat during tonight's festivities, and Clark's thumb traced it, too light to hurt. Bruce's hips jerked up against Clark's, against the solid hot pressure of his erection.

"You're still hard," he said into Clark's smooth cheek, and didn't bother to make a question of it. This wasn't Clark's cock taking a few minutes to subside; this was Clark demonstrably ready for round two, meeting every movement of Bruce's hips like he hadn't just come spectacularly down Bruce's throat. Bruce had never, under normal circumstances, seen Clark tire or weaken or waver. Maybe he just _didn't_ ; maybe he had no refractory period and Bruce could just keep him up in his office and hear those little noises and the wondering shout of his orgasm again and again and never have to stop or return to reality; maybe— _God_ , what could he do to Bruce with that kind of stamina? "How many...."

"It's more work each time, so the practical limit is lower than you're thinking," Clark said drily, and kissed Bruce in a transparent bid to stop him from pursuing the issue. Bruce tried opening his mouth as though to speak, just to see what Clark would do; the answer was, dig his fingers into Bruce's ass and roll their hips together with intent.

Bruce had been right about these boxers. He'd made a substantial wet spot, and it caught uncomfortably at the head of his cock every time they moved against each other. This would be a good time to try to get his pants off and maybe make the effort to do this with some shred of dignity. He dug his heels into the backs of Clark's thighs instead, and angled himself until their bodies were just right, until he could feel Clark's cock sliding along the trapped ridge of his own. Bruce tried to get a satisfactory grip on Clark with his hands, and couldn't; he'd designed the Batsuit to be hard to grapple, not anticipating he'd one day be stymied by this during sex.

Not that he hadn't had that dream, but in the dream it had been the Bat itself, not Clark, and Bruce hadn't been able to get a grip on it not because of the hard work of Wayne Enterprises materials engineers but because it was a twisting apparition of shadows and fury. Clark had been right to worry about someone realizing he wasn't the real Bat; he didn't even move right, didn't look at things right. He looked like Superman with an inexplicable bat on his chest.

"Wait," Clark said, but Bruce ignored him. He'd done his time in the mines of Clark's weird reticence already, he'd given Clark a pretty goddamn expert blowjob, and God, he was finally close; he could feel it gathering in his groin, drawing his balls up and his muscles tight. If Clark had to face-fuck him for the rest of the night to feel satisfied that was fine, but he needed this right now—and _oh God_ Clark face-fucking him for the rest of the night, he could push Bruce down flat on the clear surface of the desk and crawl up Bruce's body and his cock would be a wet red curve against Bruce's mouth—

"Wait," Clark said again. He pinned Bruce's thighs to the desk and leaned back until their bodies were no longer touching.

" _Fuck_ ," Bruce said, yanking at him uselessly. Clark's hair was wild from the cowl and his mouth was wet from kissing and Bruce was _shivering_ he was so close to coming, just the friction of his own underwear against his cock might be enough if Clark weren't holding him still with his implacable hands.

"Are you going to get weird about this and pretend nothing happened the moment I leave your office?"

" _Why are we having this conversation now_."

"You owe me at least three uncomfortable questions."

Being simultaneously so close to laughter and so close to violence was an experience Bruce did not usually associate with sex. "I guess keeping score is in the spirit of the occasion," he said through his teeth. "Why _are_ we having this conversation now?"

"Because if this show is one night only, I have a wishlist—" Clark paused, because Bruce had caught his breath and clenched his jaw, and betrayed his reaction in a dozen other ways, surely; Clark actually glanced down at Bruce's chest, into it, at his rabbiting heart. "To work through," Clark continued slowly, "while I can. But if it's not, I really just want to bring you off."

"What's on the wishlist?" At least Bruce's voice was level.

"Is that the deciding factor?"

"No. I just want to know." His fever-pitch need had subsided a little, but he could still feel the pounding of his pulse in his groin. "Personal reasons."

Clark had a gift for making his grin a little bashful even when that should have been impossible. "Answer first."

They looked at each other. Either the pause lasted longer, or Clark had even less patience, than Bruce realized; it felt like hardly a moment had passed when Clark said, "Come on, Bruce. We don't have to hold hands in front of the League, but don't pretend the genie fits back in the bottle."

"Asking me this when I'm desperate to get off is impressively manipulative, for you," Bruce said, finally.

"Thanks, Professor Backhand, I learned from the best," Clark said. Bruce stared at him, then let the corner of his mouth tilt up a little. Clark dropped his gaze and grinned his aw-shucks grin.

When he looked up, Bruce leaned in and kissed him. No ravenous sensuality this time, no breakneck exploration of new territory; not much more than a peck. He might kiss Clark like this in passing, if they had the kind of relationship in which kisses like that were possible. Clark closed his eyes and swayed into it a little, but didn't follow Bruce when he sat back. Bruce wet his lips.

He'd just felt like doing it, but let Clark think it was some last test if he wanted to.

"You'll just show up on the grounds with a boom box if I try to act like I haven't signed an indefinite-term sex agreement by sucking you off once," he said.

A smile bloomed on Clark's face. It would have simplified things for Bruce considerably if Clark were less radiant when he was happy. "That reference is a little old for me. You're lucky I didn't have any friends in high school." He kissed Bruce again, just a little longer, and pressed his hands into the insides of Bruce's thighs. His hands were each a maddeningly short distance from Bruce's cock, but thrusting against his grip was no use. Bruce knew that and tried anyway. "If you keep talking to me so pretty, I might make you hold my hand in front of the League after all."

"Is that on this wishlist?"

"You really—?" Clark couldn't seem to stop smiling. This new flash of his teeth was a little disbelieving. "No, it isn't. I'm not telling you about the wishlist."

"We had a deal."

"Talk to my lawyer. The wishlist is nothing, it's—what two people can get up to in an office until one of them—uh, is too tired to—"

"Passes out," Bruce supplied.

"Your ceiling might have featured. I've got a better list."

"I'm listening."

Clark leaned into Bruce again, finally, _Jesus_ , and released his thighs in favor of working his hands up Bruce's sides, pressing his thumbs into hips, ribs, shoulders. His bare hand was silent but the gloved one whispered against the wool of Bruce's waistcoat, the cotton of his shirt. More importantly: he wasn't restraining Bruce anymore, and Bruce was free to grab him and snug their bodies up against each other again. Some part of him reflected that after all that, Bruce deserved at least a proper handjob and not to rub himself off on Clark like they were both teenagers who'd barely discovered how a dick works; the rest of him was busy.

"I actually got the first thing on the list from you," Clark said, running his hands down Bruce's arms now and closing them around Bruce's wrists. His voice slowed and grew less confident as he went on, as saying whatever he was about to say to Bruce moved out of the realm of fancy and became something that might have consequences. Bruce's curiosity only sharpened. He was interested in learning why he needed his hands immobilized for this conversation, too. "It was back during the Darkseid business."

Oh, shit. Bruce went still but Clark took up the slack, bearing him down against the cleared surface of the desk in a long slow stretch that ended with Bruce's arms at full extension above his head.

"I told you about that dream because that information was relevant to stopping an interplanetary invasion," Bruce said, flat as ever, like they were arguing in the cave or on a rooftop and Clark hadn't just laid him out like an offering on Bruce's own altar. "There were four other people in the room."

"Yeah, Bruce, I was paying attention," Clark said. He left Bruce's wrists in the care of his gloved hand, hooked the other one behind Bruce's knee and hitched their bodies into alignment—God, he'd been paying attention, earlier, to just what angle and pressure made Bruce want to jerk and buck and pull at him. Bruce clenched his fists and twisted against Clark's casual grip; the futility of it set his pulse jumping. "Trust me when I say I don't need you to tell me it's unprofessional. That's how I knew I was in trouble."

He'd been fucking right. He'd been right about their symmetrical denial and simultaneous failures. Clark had wanted him nearly as long as they'd been working together. It rattled Bruce's last defenses like a storm. And he couldn't even gloat about it properly, because Clark was bent over him, rocking their hips together, and Bruce was pressing up into it and groaning, just past the edge of words. It felt like he'd been hard for years, waiting for Clark's improbable body and low sweet baritone to roll against him and through him and bring him here.

"No, maybe I knew I was in trouble when I got the next one," Clark said into his ear, "which was when you were testing that new gliding rig." Clark's voice was even and conversational. He'd never seemed winded earlier, so it stood to reason he wouldn't seem winded now, but Bruce wanted his furtive little gasps, the shuddering tension of his orgasm; he wanted Clark to come with him, on him, God, _soon_. "I wanted to help you, which would have been redundant, and now you just use that thing all the time. But I wanted to cat-and-mouse you all over Gotham. They're all kind of like that—they're impossible. Roads not taken."

Clark popped the last of the buttons off Bruce's waistcoat with his free hand; they bounced and rolled away across the desk. He ran his palm up Bruce's side beneath it, over the rumpled topology of his dress shirt. Bruce's cock pulsed against Clark's through the layers of silk and wool that separated them; he thought he might by now have soaked through his pants, too, and Clark would be able to feel it on his bare erection, how wet he got when he was teased and denied. This suit was a loss.

"You hit me with the Batmobile and I rip off the canopy, but you don't stand up, so I have to drag you out." Clark's lips just barely brushed Bruce's ear, and his hand traveled up Bruce's chest, past his thundering heart. "I've captured the Bat who's eluded me for so long and I pull off the cowl to see who's underneath."

Bruce bit his lip hard to keep quiet. The original vision, the desert, the ambush, the terrifying dictatorial Superman—that had been Barry's doing, not a dream at all. Clark knew that. What Bruce hadn't told him was that his own sleeping mind had cannibalized it for parts like all the other horrors he'd seen. Its terrible possibilities had dogged him into his real dreams, and Bruce had continued to make contingencies, to plan, to half-expect, even though he knew Clark now and knew that future had been averted. Clark's motivation in the dream had had to evolve as their circumstances changed, and each time it had, it cut closer to the bone: Clark just wanted Bruce. He just wanted Bruce for himself.

Or maybe: Bruce was already wholly overcome by Clark, and the dream wasn't about that future anymore, if it ever had been, but about the two of them. About Bruce twisting uselessly on a chain while Clark came nearer and nearer and finally took the heart from him.

"The Clock King," Clark said, then hesitated; his hips thrust and his breath fluttered against Bruce's ear. Oh God there it was, his relentless voice and metronomic rhythm just starting to falter. He was pressed hard and hot against Bruce's hip and Bruce needed to touch him, but he held Bruce down pitilessly with Bruce's own glove and could not be resisted. "The Clock King," Clark went on, "throws Bruce Wayne off a building, and I have to save him."

His hand ran up Bruce's shoulder, the nape of his neck, the back of his head. Bruce was a helpless moaning arch under him, legs locked around his hips.

"There's another way they're all like," Clark said. "They all mean the same thing."

Clark curled his fingers slowly into a fist in Bruce's hair, and pinned Bruce's head down against the surface of the desk. He kissed Bruce's temple and breathed the last words into his ear.

"I caught you, so I get to have you."

This was precisely the worst moment for Bruce to come. He did it anyway.

He was almost completely constrained: head pinned, arms pinned, hips pinned; cock trapped inside his clothing and between Clark's body and his own. So it didn't matter how he thrust or writhed, how violent or abandoned he was, as his orgasm flooded his boxers and shook the breath from his lungs. Clark could contain all of it. He held Bruce down easily through the long wet pounding rush of it, and as it petered out he said into Bruce's jaw, "Please."

The catch in Clark's voice sent one last thrill of pleasure straight down Bruce's spine to his cock. Clark relinquished one of Bruce's hands and Bruce reached down at once to shove it into his own pants.

"Bruce, come on—" Clark said, but cut off with a harsh, surprised noise when Bruce withdrew his hand again and closed his now-slick fingers around Clark's cock. "Oh yes," he said instead as Bruce stroked him, "God, oh, please—"

Clark was still holding him down by the hair and one wrist; he pressed his forehead against Bruce's temple and took fast trembling breaths against his jaw as he fucked the circle of Bruce's fingers. Just before he came again, he hiked Bruce farther away from the edge of the desk. His own feet remained on the floor, and Bruce couldn't tell what Clark thought he was accomplishing until Clark went rigid against him and gasped against his ear.

The first thrust of his orgasm met the edge of Bruce's desk instead of Bruce's pelvis, and the desk, an L-shaped mahogany edifice weighing close to half a ton, skidded a few inches across the floor on its locked wheels. The second nudged it nearly up against the wall on its far side. Beyond that, Clark had it under control and was nearly motionless, even when Bruce got his hand back on the wet jerking length of him and stroked him through the rest of it. He'd let go of Bruce's wrist at some point, maybe fumbling, maybe afraid of crushing it; Bruce slipped his fingers into the mess of Clark's hair and kissed his ear, his forehead, and finally his mouth when he raised his head.

Clark seemed dazed; Bruce's bones felt liquefied. They kissed lazily, in long slow bouts, and between them just breathed with each other, foreheads touching. Clark's hand came up and stroked Bruce's jaw, smoothed the hair at his temple. In a moment Bruce would shift his weight and the situation in his pants would become intolerable and the rest of the world would rush back in, but for this sliver of time he need only luxuriate in the comfortable weight of Clark and in his own body totally unraveled by afterglow, and kiss him, and kiss him, and kiss him.

Bruce shifted his weight. The situation in his pants became intolerable. The rest of the world rushed back in. He sighed and pushed at Clark, who let him sit, then let him up altogether when Bruce pushed at him again. Bruce adjusted his belt. He picked up a pen and flash drive and random lipstick that had sometime recently been devoured by the void under his desk, and tossed them onto the desktop. He surveyed the Batsuit detritus strewn about his office. Clark had tossed the cloak and cowl onto a chair earlier; Bruce tied up the ends to make a bag and began loading the tactical plates into it.

No doubt Clark would say something to ruin the moment very soon, but for the time being he just leaned back against Bruce's desk and watched him work. Bruce was always discovering new knock-on effects of Clark's biology; today's was that kissing didn't redden Clark's mouth. He looked thoroughly debauched and he was wearing Bruce's suit, but dig down and he was as physically unaffected as he would have been if Bruce had spent the last half hour punching him. He took off his remaining glove, finally, and began to kick off his boots—soon he wouldn't be wearing the suit, either.

"Can you fly home in the undersuit?" said Bruce, looking around idly for his lost buttons. Thanks to Clark, the wet spot now extended a fair distance down his pants leg and stuck the wool unpleasantly to his thigh. "I think I need my spare clothes more than you do."

"No problem." Clark had pulled up the undersuit pants so he was more or less modest, and was wriggling out of the bottom of the outer suit, which was interesting to watch but would have been moreso if he'd done the top first. "Sorry about ... everything you're wearing."

"It's not like I'm hard up."

Clark ignored this. "I guess I do need to stop at home, but I was thinking about—your place? Later?"

"The Clock King incident doesn't need much of a postmortem."

Hurt flickered across Clark's face, but confusion quickly replaced it. He was halfway out of the top of the suit but stopped with it bunched up under his arms. "I thought if you were going to brush me off after all, you'd do your meditation thing first so I wouldn't be able to read you."

Blood thundered in Bruce's ears: the specific panic of the jig being very much up. He knew it more from childhood than from whatever the adult experience of that feeling was supposed to be like, because he had crafted an adult self who alternately did not care about being caught out, or had the escape routes and plausible deniability to ensure that he simply never was. Except by Clark. Twice in one night, when forces were really aligned against him.

"All right, I don't know why you're so upset by that." Clark finished working his way out of the top half of the suit and discarded it on the desktop; he took a step toward Bruce in the black undersuit and his stocking feet. His socks were red.

"Are you planning to announce every endocrine response I have from now on? Can I expect to enjoy this at League meetings?"

"Depends on whether you're holding my hand at the time," Clark fired back. "Bruce, are you okay?"

"All this time—the considerable effort that went into my 'meditation thing'—you knew."

Bruce had a flat voice specifically for looping Clark in on his fuck-ups. This was not that voice; he didn't know where that voice was right now. Even his merely human ears caught the raw edge of the accusation. This was, come to think, probably the least guarded he had been around Clark at any point in their acquaintance, maybe less even than when Clark had been half talking, half grinding an orgasm out of him a minute ago. None of his speculation about how harrowing it would be had prepared him for the experience.

Paradoxically, Clark's posture softened; he rocked back on his heels. "I didn't," he said. "I knew you were hiding something from me, about yourself. Everyone knows that about you. You're the great leveler."

Bruce's hands were fists in his makeshift cape-bag; he made himself relax them. "And you thought it was what."

"Everything?" said Clark, throwing up his hands. "Surprise, Bruce, people have noticed you're secretive and like the upper hand. I figured you didn't want me smelling your opinions about sports." He turned away to collect the Batsuit from the desk and the boots from the floor in front of it. "And that you were trying to be polite about how much you hate aliens."

"I don't hate aliens," Bruce said automatically.

"Let's just say I thought you did and not have that argument right now. I thought you found me—extremely off-putting, as an alien and maybe as a person, and were making every effort not to jeopardize our working relationship." The Batsuit was too rigid to fold like a garment; Clark made a couple of attempts and gave up.

"That wasn't ... exactly it."

"Yeah, I'm just starting to catch on."

"Was it the blowjob, or—"

Clark wasn't expecting that; he laughed, just briefly, but it transformed his face for a moment. Even when he looked up at Bruce from his armload of Batsuit and went solemn, something of his smile lingered. "If you're going to play dumb," he said, "I guess I have to be direct."

"Oh, good."

"That was a come-on, earlier. I asked to come around tonight because I was angling to stay over."

"I know what it was. I have a meeting tomorrow morning that's case-related and need to be fresh. I can't have you monopolizing my entire night."

"We could just sleep, you know," Clark said, then worked his mouth, fighting a grin, when Bruce raised a skeptical eyebrow at him.

"I also have a stakeout in the evening," Bruce went on. Clark's face, implausibly, brightened even more. "I'll contact you about where to meet me when I know more."

Clark came toward him at last. Bruce held out the cape-bag and Clark stuffed the Batsuit and boots into it, then looked up into Bruce's face. He wasn't wearing any fewer layers now than he did when he wore his own blue suit, and at least this borrowed undersuit had a pocket, but to Bruce he seemed so exposed that it was hard not to look away.

"In all that," Clark said, in a voice so heavy with admission that a listener could have been excused for not realizing the two of them had just fucked on Bruce's desk, "all that thinking you were barely keeping a lid on an existential crisis every time we talked.... There still came a point when I started wanting you to like me anyway."

Given a moment to consider, Bruce could have told Clark the month, if not the day. He remembered once reflecting that Clark's stiff politeness had begun to thaw, after Darkseid; Clark had started to laugh sometimes when they talked, to seem no longer determined to exit every conversation in as few words as possible. Bruce had put the difference down to a change in the subject matter, not a change in Clark.

They were very close now; Clark still held a fold of the cape in his hand. He reached up with the other to stroke his fingers through Bruce's hair again. The right line here would get Bruce kissed, probably.

"How's that working out for you?" he said.

It didn't even have to be a _good_ line.

**Author's Note:**

> This story ended up only barely satisfying [the prompt it was written for](http://dceu-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1491.html?thread=620243#cmt620243), which went a little something like: _Clark Kent impersonates either Batman or Bruce Wayne. Clark's a good actor, but he's not THAT good. His impersonation goes awry, and shenanigans ensue._ I made sure the prompter would be comfortable with the outcome, but there's probably a lesson about myself in here somewhere, or at least an analogy about herding cats. (If you're tempted to go write a fill that _does_ satisfy the prompt, PLEASE DO. That prompt deserves shenanigans.)
> 
> If this story feels comics/DCAU fic–inflected to you, you're not wrong. The dynamic in BvS is so far removed from the more classic "half-convivial, half-combative" long-term work partner relationship, I think it's interesting to play around with ways to get there from here, and the different tensions you'd get in that relationship once it arose; you can see a sketch of a route in this fic's implied backstory. That was a fun exercise, and I might come back to it later for a more direct treatment.
> 
> You can find this over on the [AO3 feed tumblr](http://ao3feed-superbat.tumblr.com/post/155644769684/convergent-evolution), if you're partial to reblogging. I'm on Tumblr at [oneiroteuthis](http://oneiroteuthis.tumblr.com/).


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